


A Serpent in the Fade

by Zalanii (Wasfiyah)



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Dragon Age Lore, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mostly Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-02 22:57:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13328193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasfiyah/pseuds/Zalanii
Summary: After defeating the Blight, a war worse fate has reached FereldanThis is a work still mostly in progress, updates will be sporadic, I'm not a super fantastic writer, more of a shit talker.





	1. Chapter 1

1

 

“ _And So is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall. Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven, And doom upon all the world_.”

-Threnodies 8.13

 

 **It was if the Maker had decided that Ferelden had not been punished thoroughly for the Blight.** No sooner than the Blight had been ended before it truly began, winter set upon the land. What the Blight could not destroy, winter had accomplished within weeks. An unusually wet spring in the years before had led to poorer and poorer farming seasons, but it wasn’t until the country was besieged by Blight that the people of Ferelden truly understood just how dire things were to become. The people were  resilient, but winter continued, almost unnaturally so.  The city was gripped by the winds of winter, citizens pulling on as many leathers and wool as they could afford, trudging through the snow. The Denerim palace was barely any better, the more wood put to fire the more the wind seemed to taunt the foolhardy. Even for someone from Highever, where the very landscape was shaped by the relentless winds and ocean, the chill seemed to cut through to the bone. Perhaps the knowledge that down the hall were various freeholders, arls, and foreign dignitaries arguing amongst themselves as to who was to blame for the inevitable. Ferelden was destined to starve, Warden Commander Adelaide knew it, they knew it, the nobles more than likely knew it. Even Denerim’s stores were slowly becoming bare, the gold stores were already thoroughly depleted due to the Blight, and a potential civil war. Trade had crawled to a standstill as the Waking Sea froze over and trails began to become too treacherous for all but the most foolhardy traders. Defeating an Archdemon was nothing compared to the dread of knowing that starvation that would end Ferelden, not a civil war, nor the Blight.

 

The Warden Commander, newly returned from the North of Ferelden, having just defended the city of Amaranthine from a faction of Darkspawn not yet defeated from the Blight. As soon as she entered Denerim, a scroll freshly delivered by one of Kirkwall’s ravens appeared. A scout had quickly run from the castle’s raven tower to bring it straight to the attention of the Kingdom of Ferelden. Stretching out her hand to grab the newly delivered scroll, she slid the twine off the tightly wound scroll of parchment. Adelaide didn’t have to read the scroll to know what it was going to say, tension between most of the independent city states and Ferelden were complicated at the best of times. Furling her brow the Warden motioned to Wadard, the Seneschal, a  greying man, likely in his mid fifties and had served King Cailan as an advisor for many years. Newly made King Alistair had come to rely on his experience heavily in the last while, and the Warden had come to respect the way he never condescended anyone either above or below his station.

 

Wadard took a step forward from the doorway, leaning against the frame,“yes my lady?”

Rolling the scroll back up, Adelaide slid the twine back onto the parchment and placed it between her arm and body, “The council is currently in session?”

“Yes, should I alert the council that you’ll be attending?” He asked.

Nodding, “yes, tell them I have news from Kirkwall.”

Bowing he exited, leaving the Warden alone in her bower room.

 

Privacy was a rare thing in a palace, taking advantage the Warden stepped out of her armor, she had been in such a rush coming from Vigil’s Keep she hadn’t had the time to undress. Unbuckling the heavy cuirass, making an audible crash to the floor, she were lucky that the standards for a Queen consort were different if the consort were also a warden-commander and the Hero of Ferelden, among many other titled. Too rushed to send for anyone to dress her in the customary cotehardies and surcoats, brushing the a few pieces of brush off the deeply worn beige gambeson. She stopped to look at her reflection in the polished brass, she almost didn’t recognize herself. She wondered how it was possible that just over a year had passed since her parents murdered, and Ferelden ravaged by Blight. Where the eyes of a 18 year old woman who had never seen death looked at her only a year ago, the two eyes of a much older person stared back.

 

The torches in the hall were already lit, but all for naught, the darkness of winter seemed to engulf most of the castle.

 

Standing in front of the great wooden door at the end of the hall, the Warden waited for it to swing open, a small elven woman bowed and motioned to the Warden to take a seat. If it were colder than the void throughout Ferelden, it certainly was not so inside the room. The inferno between the council was palpable, it gave off a tangible force. No joy on any of the faces here in this room, the council was called to evaluate the nation’s options, of which there were few. Alistair called on the enchanter to the Royal Palace, Wynne, the newly appointed Cofferer of the Wardrobe and called upon for his knowledge on inventory and trade, Bann Shianni who oversaw the Alienage in Denerim, and Arl Eamon who after the Fifth Blight was ended was given the Howe’s former estate. The meeting was not exactly secret, but if word were to get out to the nobles and freeholders of Ferelden, starvation would be the least of everyone’s worry.

 

“Tell me, are the grain stores as bad as I hear?” The Warden-Commander asked, and as if recalled back from the fade, the council perked up, “Apologies my lady, we were so deep in our discussion we did not see you enter,” Arl Eamon apologized, raising from his chair, ever the traditionalist to bow, which caused the rest of the council to follow. “Please, sit, sit. Do not get up on my account, I am already tired of having people announce my presence. I have too many titles as it is, we’d be here all night”

“Of that, I have no doubt my lady, do you have word?” Eamon asked eagerly.

Nodding, the Warden sat down across from the council, “yes, I received a letter delivered urgently by raven. I am afraid it is not good news, they send us their condolences, but say that they have ‘already done their part for Ferelden’ by accepting refugees fleeing the Blight by the thousands, and are ‘dealing with internal matters of the greatest importance.’”

 

A slight groan escaped Eamon’s lips, “We have not yet asked Starkhaven for aid, surely we have allies there,”

Wynne, who by now must have become annoyed with the bickering between the rest of the council earlier sounded particularly matronly, but her voice rang clear and true, “I fear the answer would be much the same, there is a feeling among Thedas that we Fereldens are a bunch of turnips who don’t know their place.”

Arl Eamon angrily slammed his goblet down on the table, spilling some drink, “Turnips? Eagerness was funding Viscount Dumar’s campaign ten years ago!”

Wynne sat back in her chair, raising her hands in a gesture of peace, attempting to calm the Arl, “The people of Kirkwall are not being cruel out of spite, as of late it’s becoming known that Kirkwall is in a state of constant turmoil that threatens the whole of the Free Marches, perhaps even Thedas.”

As if pulled out of thought Alistair turned towards Wynne, “What do you mean, what turmoil?”

“I only know from what I have heard from friends throughout the Circles, there are rumours of a rebellion.”

Placing her hands on the table, Wynne spoke to the floor, “I am afraid that many in the Circles have been arguing for the ability to govern themselves, and while their arguments are not without merit, I am afraid it will only lead to chaos.”

 

Adelaide placed her goblet on the table, cleaning a smudge off the brass, finally feeling the chill come off the window across from the table it slowly crept up the spine, “I’ve seen what happens when mages lose control, we cannot let that happen again. Anywhere.”

Alistair agreed grimly, “I agree, but in our state there is little we can do about it, Eamon, we must trade with Antiva?”

Eamon gulped his wine, seemingly trying to drink himself drunk before dawn, his words beginning to slur, “we do your Grace but we have neither the sovereigns, nor the produce to trade.”

 

“Andraste’s Beard!” Exclaimed an exceedingly frustrated Alistair, “The Marchers don’t want to help, Rivain and Antiva only like us when the gold is good, I don’t suppose the Qunari feel like helping us for fun do they?”

 

Dylan Marchant, the newly appointed Cofferer, in charge of the estate’s finances and inventory was clearly out of his element of paper and calculations was called on by the King, the papers visibly shaking as he shuffled through them, “Dylan, can you tell me can we last the winter, please tell me that at least?”

“Uh, the winter?”

Alistair laughed, “No the summer of next year? Yes the winter.”

The Cofferer was only a young man who had probably only entered his twentieth year was most likely too young to be a Cofferer of anything, let alone finances, however after the spendthrift years of Cailan many refused the job, and as nervous as a newborn foal started reading his notes, “Denerim has enough food stored for 2 or 3 months, at least until the spring if we’re careful.”

Alistair choked on his drink, “Oh if we’re careful. Oh good, good, why did this just come to our attention now?”

 

Adelaide knew the answer to that question, the country had been fighting the Blight, coupled with poor farming seasons, she remembered her father’s discussions with freeholders recounting during council sessions that their farmers could hardly grow enough to feed themselves, never mind Highever. But that was before the Blight, and the income from mining Iron had been more than enough to purchase what the estate needed. The Warden listened to the Cofferer as he recounted the calculations he created to discover the dire straits the nation was now in, “What of our gold stores, there must be enough to buy us what we need,” Eamon asked. Clenching his eyes, Dylan set his papers down gently, flattening them, “I don’t know how much you know about how our former King managed the Kingdom’s finances,”

 

Eamon muttered under his breath, into his goblet, “Spent sovereigns like a Orlesian child in the marketplace asking for petit-bonbons.”

Dylan soberly nodded, “I’m afraid the Arl is correct. Coupled with his war against the Darkspawn, he spared no expense, and while the Kingdom of Orlais was willing to aid our cause, they never got the chance to join us and so it was funded solely on our already dwindling stores of gold, and to add to this was Loghain’s desire to march to war against you my lady.”

“Just how low are we?”

“Not enough, and we are already deeply indebted to the Dwarven Merchants Guild.”

Alistair’s mouth dropped in shock, “What, how?”

Wynne chimed in knowingly, “I think I know the answer to that one, Orzammar controls the trade of lyrium, in order to afford the quantity we required for the Circle, and our Templars for Ostagar we indebted ourselves to the Merchant guild to get the lyrium we needed, and with the events that transpired after Ostagar, and the ritual we performed to save Eamon, I’m afraid we burned a hole in the pocket of Denerim.”

Dylan nodded, “Lady Wynne is correct, Orzammar has an agreement with Orlais and extension the Orlesian Chantry, which grants favourable access to the Lyrium market solely to Orlais. However, we may be able to call in a favour with King Aeducan, thanks to you, your Majesty.”

 

Eamon called over an elven servant, she was petite even for her kind, almost waiflike, with straw blonde hair, she almost squeaked when she talked, Eamon motioned for her to fill his goblet with more drink. The Warden feared for his head tomorrow, but no one in this room could blame a man for escaping through drink, not after the nightmares he had lived through, with a large gulp he asked the question that had been brewing for some time, “How long can the rest of Ferelden last?”

 

Dylan shuffled through his papers, his brow visibly damp now, “my current calculations, with the current stores in the chantries I have spoken to, give me a month at most.”

The Warden felt her heart sink into her belly, a month was no time at all, she could fight archdemons, dragons, spirits, and men.

 

_No man has seen it but all men know it. Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing but would fell the strongest armies. Of what do I speak?_

Hunger. Hunger would fell the nation, it could not be fought with the greatest army, or with the wisest words. The council again rose into arguments, blame flying towards the Cofferer for not bringing it to the council’s attention earlier, blame for an overspending class of nobles, Bann Shianni accused Alistair of rationing food to the Alienage, which led to the reply that perhaps the nation would not need to ration if there was no Alienage, on and on the arguments went.

 

“Enough!” Adelaide shouted over the council, banging her fists on the table, shaking the plates with the stuffed pheasant that was hardly touched, she motioned to one of the servants standing to the side, next to him was a rack filled with several maps, “I need the map of Thedas, no the one next to that one.” Shoving the plates and goblets off the table she unfurled the map, grabbing the knives from the table stabbing the corners into the table. “You say we have no allies, I say we have opportunity,”

 

Intrigued the council leaned over onto the map, circling the the map the Warden continued, “I think we’re ignoring our largest potential ally. Orlais.”

Eamon scoffed, clearly disgusted at the idea, “No absolutely not. Not going to happen.”

Rebuffed the Warden countered, “Why not, you agreed with me when I said Orlais had no plans to invade Ferelden and called Loghain a mad man.”

“He was a mad man and needed to be stopped before he dragged Ferelden into a pointless war, but groveling on Empress Celene’s doorstop? Surely not, we will not beg!”

“I said nothing of begging, but we are in need. Orlais has pledged themselves to us in a time of great need, and we need to call upon it now.”

“So what would you have us do instead of using the only ally we have?”

Eamon shook his head, “I don’t know. I just know that allying ourselves with Orlais will not be popular.”

“It doesn’t have to be popular, it just has to ensure we can feed the people.” Alistair concluded, the Warded nodded, “we already have pockets of resistance from farmers, I managed to talk down a revolt in Amaranthine, but I fear I have emboldened them to return. I do not blame the people, but the next time it happens the reaction will have to be swift and harsh.”

 

Eamon stood up placing his goblet on the table, walking behind the council to stare out the green tinted glass, not wishing to face the table knowing he had lost the argument. “You know it’s the only option Eamon, we cannot let Fereldens starve because we are too proud.”

Eamon didn’t even turn around, staring into the courtyard, now nearly completely dark, save for the few torches lit on the grounds, he began by lamenting, “I just never thought I would see the day where my country would have to ally truly with Orlais. I know they are not my enemy, but neither are they our compatriots.”

“I know Eamon, but the war was over 10 years ago, we must move forward, they are our only hope. We cannot ration our food forever, and we cannot go to war against starvation.”

 

Alistair stood up, “Do what you think is the best course of action my love, you have the full support of the council. I’m afraid that it is late, and any later I will find myself asleep at this table.”

 

The council stood to bow to the King’s exit, “of course my King, we shall discuss specifics at a later date.” Eamon replied, “You shall always have my unwavering support of your rule Alistair.” Eamon bowed slightly towards Alistair and the Warden before stumbling out of the door, a trail of Elven servants chasing after him. The Warden took the waiflike blonde elf aside, placing a sovereign into her hand, “Please make sure he makes it into his estate, I don’t need him to make a scene.” She nodded intently, her eyes glowing staring at the sovereign in her hand, “Yes Miss, I mean your Grace.” Wynne rubbed her eyes, clearly tired and far past the time she usually retired, “He’s not getting any better, but I can hardly expect the man to be...”

“Normal, after being poisoned, your village terrorized by your mage son who was possessed by a demon?” Alistair replied, finishing the sentence.

“Still, it’s worrying to see him like this” Wynne said dejectedly, while shrugging.

 

The last of the fire dwindling, sputtering only the faintest whisper of fire the Warden called for the chamber maid to tend to the fire.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

_ “Call to Your children, teach us Your greatness. What has been forgotten has not yet been lost”  _

—Andraste 1:13:3

 

**Eamon was drunk, he could feel it in his legs that felt that they had been replaced with iron, if it weren’t for the elven woman holding his arm helping him shuffle to the estate on the other side of Denerim, he may have fallen over.** The cold was the only thing keeping him awake, for that he was thankful. No longer fond of sleeping, or more specifically the act of dreaming. Drinking was the only thing that kept the nightmares at bay, often he wished that he were a Dwarven man, hearing how they had no connection to the Fade, dreamless slumber for a twisted old man.

 

A gust of arctic air nearly pushed Eamon and the elven girl off their feet, causing a series of elven words to fly out of her mouth, “ _ Fenedhis lasa _ !” He had no idea what it meant,  but certainly some sort of curse, so he responded in kind, “Agreed, Andraste’s tits!”. She laughed at his refrain, Eamon’s heart warmed despite the cold, it had been a long time since he had made anyone laugh. He used to be able to make Isolde laugh, and his son, Redcliffe Castle, once a place of laughter and love, now silent. Now aware he was staring at the snow, feeling the cold seeping into his boots, into his skin. The wind as if in reply began to gust, bringing daggers of ice and slow which pelted any skin unfortunate enough to be uncovered. The cold was wearing off the drink, and his senses began to sharpen, which led to a feeling of iron in his belly. He did not want to dream tonight. Please, he thought,  _ maker don’t let me dream tonight _ . The door to his estate was now only a few steps away, appearing almost oppressively, towering over him.

  
  


Tugging on his cloak, the elven woman asked, “ser, we’re almost at your estate now? Do you require anything else?”

 

Trying to find a reason to prolong a reason not to remain alone, digging his hands into his pockets to fish out a large brass key he thought of something, “I don’t believe my hearth has been tended,” a wave of relief washed over him. He undid the locking mechanism and drew back the bolt holding the door,as he had surmised the fire had gone out and contained a biting chill inside. Most castles and estates belonging to nobles have staff, anywhere from a handful to hundreds, but most if not all the staff at the former Howe estate had left after Rendon Howe’s execution, and Eamon wasn’t agreeable to keeping on the murderous and traitorous man’s former staff. Eamon had never gotten around to hiring on more, and neither had he brought any staff from Redcliffe, instead leaving everything to his wife Isolde. He had thought that she would leave Redcliffe to join her husband in Denerim, but it always got put off, always another excuse until finally he stopped sending letters. According to the last letter received, Connor was doing well at the Circle and enjoying his studies, he didn’t know if Connor could not or would not receive the letters he had written, or if he had read them and refused to respond. 

 

A year ago, thanks to the Hero of Ferelden that Eamon was cured of his affliction by the Ashes of Andraste. She defended the castle, the village, and himself, naive to believe everything would go back to the way it was before, before Jowan, before The Blight. The Estate had been given over to Eamon as a gift from King Alistair who had hoped he would make himself useful as an advisor to the King to guide the young man in ruling the nation, and a more private reason out of a sense of loyalty to the man he saw as a father figure. Life however made that gift forfeit, a lonely man slowly poisoning himself with drink in an empty home surrounded by the furniture of a dead traitor. Thankful that the King was a kind and patient man surrounded by wise counsel, because a stronger King may have already disposed of such “counsel”. Publically Eamon moved to Denerim out of loyalty to the Therein bloodline. Privately, it was more due to tensions with Isolde, Isolde never recovered from her guilt. He would always love her, and there were moments after he had recovered where it was almost like nothing had ever happened, but the moments became fewer and fewer. 

 

The elven woman put her frail arms around Eamon and eased him inside,“of course Ser.” Clearing his throat, attempting to sound slightly sober, “I never got your name,” rubbing her hands together, visibly cold, “It’s Nissa,” she replied. Eamon smiled, “A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl.” Nissa smiled warmly, “thank you Ser.”

 

Averting her gaze, she turned her attention to the hearth, the distant light from the torch outside was barely enough to make out where the firesteels may be kept, and only due to her natural elven ability to see in low light she could see anything at all. “Where do you keep th-”

Eamon interjected, “The firesteel? It’s in the tinder box on the ledge over there.” Eamon pointed blindly towards the hearth. Sitting on an oak bench in the dark of the Great Hall, Eamon stretched his legs. Nissa stretched out her hands trying to walk through the nearly pitch blackness, her elven eyes taking a while to adjust. They would soon see better than any human, but for Nissa currently she felt blind. “Is there any staff I can wake up for you ser, I don’t want you to sleep alone in the hall.”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t bring any staff with me,” Eamon replied. Truth was, as much as the loneliness of being away from Connor and Isolde was, having others see what a sad person he had become was worse. 

 

Nissa knelt down at the hearth, starting a small fire. The embers creating dancing shadows across the hall, lighting the blue tiles on the fireplace, Eamon couldn’t help but laugh that the former estate of the late Arl Howe had hearth tiled with Orlesian blue tiles. The Blight had more than its fair share of ironies and incongruities, as he was coming to learn. Otherwise the room was nearly empty, far sparser than even many homes of Freeholders. Eamon, shuffled towards one of the few pieces of furniture, and sat down on the bench. If Nissa noticed the state of the hall or of the man, she remained silent. 

 

“I’m sorry you have to see how this old man lives,” Eamon croaked. Nissa didn’t respond, continuing to tend to the fire. Taking off his boots, he flung them across the room, “I’m afraid, every night that I won’t awaken.” Eamon said

“Every night, I see my son and I see the demons that tortured him. I told everyone that while I was poisoned that I asleep and I knew nothing. It was a lie, I could hear and see everything. Everything.” He continued confessing, “I am an old man, who couldn’t protect my wife, my son, my nation, or my own village. I was useless. Useless.”

 

“Your fire is now strong enough, I should let you sleep. I don’t mean to keep you,” Nissa stated, turning to leave. Eamon grabbed her arm with tears in his eyes, “No, you didn’t keep me, never you Isolde.”

Nissa pulled away, “Ser, I’m not Isolde.”

Blinking, Eamon stared at Nissa, embarrassed he took back his hand, “I’m very sorry, I’ve embarrassed myself. I shouldn’t have drank so much at that meeting. I don’t know what’s wrong with myself.” 

 

“The Blight has damaged far more than the land, it has changed us all.” Nissa said, speaking freely. Eamon staring at the floor, “Yes I suppose it has.”

 

Nissa wiped the soot from her smock, and presented her hand to Eamon, “Let’s get you into bed.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

3

_ “From the Fade I crafted you, and to the Fade you shall return. Each night in dreams that you may always remember Me.” _

_ —Canticle of Threnodies 5:7 _

  
  


**It was late, not a single servant was awake, only the sound of the howling wind reverberated throughout the stone walls** . It was after most of the castle’s first sleep, that Adelaide preferred to roam the castle alone. When she took to the roads as a Warden, she enjoyed the middle of the night, the demon hours, at camp, when she and Alistair had most of their talks about their dreams, their fears and shared stories. Adelaide thought about those nights often. They seemed further and further away each day back in Denerim, as now she had many fears, no dreams and no one to share them with.

 

It was dark inside the chapel, aside from the single burning torch lighting the sunburst idol and figure of Andraste. Kneeling down, the Warden prayed, the prayer she had memorized as a young child, one she repeated often when fighting against the Blight. Maker she hoped, that He would again aid her, and aid Ferelden. 

 

_ “Maker, my enemies are abundant. _

_ Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, _

_ Should they set themselves against me. In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know your Light remains. _

_ I have heard the sound a song in the stillness, the echo of Your voice, calling creation to wake from its slumber.” _

 

Rising from her kneeling position she snuffed the flame from the idol of Andraste, wiping the soot from her porcelain face. Like many Andrastians, she often wondered what She was like, and if She could hear her now. Unlike many Andrastians, she had held her true Ashes at Haven, had walked the flames, and passed the trials and received Her blessing. The Warden hoped she still had Her grace and blessings. With a yawn, it was inevitable that she would sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but she had one last thing to do. Using her left hand to guide her against the stone walls towards the study, she moved as silently and surefooted as if she were looking for traps in an ancient ruin. Making sure that no one else was nearby, and still fast asleep, Adelaide lit a single wax candle, illuminating the room. The wind from outside had begun to calm down, but a single draft caused the flame to ebb and flow, creating an almost supernatural glow. 

 

Several pieces of parchment lay on the desk, untouched from when she had written her last letter. Dated before she was called to Vigil’s Keep. A letter she hoped would reach someone who had seen Morrigan, or at least a clue. The quest had to quickly be abandoned, far more important matters had gotten in the way. Sitting down, and flattening the sheet, Adelaide licked the tip of her quill, first pausing to think of the best way to begin a letter to an old friend with a large favour to ask. Dipping it into the ink, she began:

 

_ To Leliana, the Left Hand of the Most Holy Divine Justinia V, Sacrist and beloved friend: _

 

_ By the Grace of the Maker, take upon me to be thus bold as to write unto you for support and goodwill. I am not in good health of body nor of heart, and the place that which beget me is sorrow of heart. You have offered your devoted and loyal self in sterling service to us, and how many dangerous missions you have undertaken in days go by in spy and martial craft. It remains therefore, that we should experience your usual prowess and might in seeking a way to induce an interest to the Empress Celene to our cause. The people have been beset by Blight, and now by famine. We are strong, and resilient and Maker-Fearing  folk, but I beseech you to aid us, in our darkest hour. _

 

_ Fare thee well always, and pray for Ferelden, Maker willing, I render to you the gratitude which you deserve for your aid, and for the very great fidelity which you have shown to the nation of Ferelden, And with the full intention of worthily rewarding your services, we ask you to continue the same. _

 

_ Your loyal friend, Queen Consort Adelaide Cousland, of the house Therin, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Teyria of Gwaren and Highever, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden  _

 

Blowing on the ink, allowing the script to dry, and with hands shaking, Adelaide folded the letter, pressing the creases gently. Taking the candle, she dripped wax on the front flap sealing the letter, before the wax had time to fully cool she pressed the seal she used for letters regarding Grey Warden business, hoping that the seal would put off passersby from wishing to look inside, and finished with thick bold letters that read “NE FORTE VENIANT MALEFICARI”. A phrase not uncommon to be found on any letters being sent to and from Chantry officials, warning that the Tevinter Maleficar were coming. If there was a historical precedent for the phrase, it had been long since forgotten. Ferelden was doomed, unless Orlais could send aid, Adelaide was not about to let the traditional channels of foreign affairs fail her. No, she would ensure victory. Pocketing the letter, she blew out the single flame, engulfing the room back into the abyss of twilight. 

 

When she entered the bedchambers she could hear Alistair already fast asleep, she placed the letter on her vanity, and somehow Alistair did not stir as she removed her clothes, and moved in behind him, savouring the few silent moments she had to just enjoy being near him, naked, she could feel his warmth pressed up against her, and she placed her face on top of his, allowing herself to succumb to the fade.

 

Sunlight woke Adelaide, the heavy, red velveteen drapes had been moved aside by Alistair sometime ago, his side of the featherbed now cold. Her eyelids were still heavy with sleep, she reached out across the bedspread, enjoying a bed that was not a pile of dirt, by an open fire surrounded by enemies, and trying not to remember that she lay in the marriage bed of Cailan and Anora. The tapestries that hung next to the bed still contained the metal ornamentation of the Mac-Tir family, next to the Therin line, the blankets lined with blue sendal to represent the Mac-Tir line, now ended with no heir, and crimson wool to represent Therin, a miniver fur blanket covered the bedspread. Adelaide did not regret the actions that led to current events, however still disturbed by the ghosts that remained. The cold was a stark reminder that winter raged on, all she wanted to do was to cocoon herself in the wool and furs. It was not to be so, being interrupted by her Mistress of the Robes. 

 

Elzbieta carrying a wash basin in one hand, and a heavy woolen dark blue cotehardie, and yellow slip slung over her arm stood in front of the bedchamber door, “Good morrow, My Lady!” She greeted cheerfully. Anora’s former Ladies and Women of the bedchamber had all followed their lady to her exile, leaving Denerim empty of most of the higher household staff. Elzbieta had served under Adelaide as a fellow Warden at Vigil’s Keep after the Battle for Amaranthine, she had only just arrived back to Denerim, a few hours later than she. Adelaide had been so busy she did not notice her entrance.  A woman in her early thirties, and had joined the order late for reasons she mostly kept to herself. Never feeling it appropriate to ask, or prod most Wardens on their prior lives, most of the Wardens joined either to escape poverty, scandal or death. All Adelaide knew is what she gathered over the year she had worked together, that she was once an Anderfel princess, and then joined the Grey Wardens, if there was something to hide she did not pry, it did not matter after you were welcomed into the order. Murderers, thieves, runaways, all were welcome to sacrifice their lives. Appointing another Grey Warden to a Denerim position was a controversial decision she was sure, but needing a confidant she could think of no one else for the position. 

 

“You are far too cheerful for someone awake this early,” Adelaide replied, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

Elzbieta’s face crinkling into a smile, “any day away from Weisshaupt Fortress and darkspawn is a blessing from the Maker.” Adelaide couldn’t agree more, the heat of combat, the rush of battle, the romance of heroism was one thing, the smell of darkspawn was quite another, and as for the Anderfels, who liked their ham to taste of despair? “Anything is better than that smell,” the two women laughed as only two women who had been on the battlefield together can. Handing Adelaide the two garments, Elzbieta placed the wash basin on the dressing table laying out two blue linen washcloths, gesturing for Adelaide to sit. Still naked from the night before, Elzbieta gently washed the Warden of some of the remaining dirt from travelling, tending to lingering wounds. There was no shame in nudity and dirt between women, least of all two women combattants. Holding her arm up to the light, Elzbieta inspected a series of bruises,  “your bruises are healing nicely from that last fight you had,” she was right, Adelaide could move her shoulder more freely without much pain. Out on the road a group of 3 cutthroats thought they could attack her caravan and take off with the shipment of silk and grain from Amaranthine to Denerim she was escorting. One of the men before she managed to plunge her sword into his throat to hit his mace into her shoulder, crushing the plate enough to wound her. “I should have seen his weapon, I was sloppy,” Adelaide lamented. Elzbieta retorted, “and I was your scutifer. I should have better defended you.” Adelaide put up her hands, “we are all alive now, and they are not.” 

 

Sitting in front of the polished brass, Adelaide looked back at her reflection now fully dressed while Elzbieta brushed her hair into a simple braid, pinning it up close to her her scalp, before placing her wimple, normally the trend of women in Ferelden wearing Wimples went out after the Orlesian Rebellion, but anything to keep the fleeting heat closer to the body was becoming a necessity. The simple actions of readying for the day, reminded her of her mother who used to brush her hair at night with a boar’s hair brush, something she hadn’t had done since, not since before her parent’s murder, and the wound still fairly raw. Traveling as a Warden meant none of the niceties of a castle, she usually kept her hair braided, similar to how many Dalish women kept her hair, and the only clothing was a undershirt and a gambeson that had seen better days. Now there was time for thought, and silence. “There, now you look like a proper lady,” Elzbieta said as she straightened the wimple on Adelaide’s head. “There was a time I would have chastised you for such a statement, but I’m too cold to think straight,” Adelaide rubbed her hands together, before grabbing the woolen hand warmer on the table, “I should take the bed linen with me, far warmer in there.” Instead, Elzbieta grabbed the furlined cloak and wrapped it around Adelaide. “I have a favour to ask of you, Elzie.”

 

She replied as she was fastening the cloak around Adelaide’s throat, “You know that I would always do my utmost to please you.” Adelaide placed her hands on top of hers, moving them to where her heart beat. “I know, and I hate having to place you in danger and be without your friendship here in this castle.” Leaning forward, grabbing the letter leaning against the brass, fingering it slightly, feeling the texture in her hand. “I need you to go West, before the weather worsens anymore than it has, before we are all truly doomed. I need you to find a former colleague of mine, she now sits as the Left Hand of the Divine in the Grand Cathedral. She may still go by the name of Sister Nightingale, or by Leliana.”

“Of course, but what should I say to her?”

Pausing a moment, “Say the truth, you are a friend of mine and therefore a friend of hers, and that we need her help.”

“When should I leave?”

“Immediately, and I must express that you are to tell no one of your mission.”

“I understand, if I am asked it is nothing more than Grey Warden business, most inquiries will be satisfied with the mystery of our order.”

 

Placing the letter in Elzbieta’s outstretched hand, an enormous burden. “Take one of our horses, and any provisions you require. No one should question you.”

Bowing, and put the letter under her apron, “I will not fail you, Maker willing.”

Not wanting to fall on custom, Adelaide stood up to embrace her friend and confidant. “Maker be with you, and I shall hope to see you again.”


	4. Chapter 4

4

_ “Lightning shall rain down from the sky, they shall cry out to their false gods, and find silence.” _

_ -Andraste 7:19 _

 

**King Alistair was already deep into the affairs of the council, and matters of his estate that he did not notice his wife entering the Great Hall to his right.** Wadard, the Senechal took notice and rose silently, to meet her. “My Lady, the King said to let you sleep as he didn’t wish to wake you. Have you eaten yet, should I call  someone from the kitchen?”

“Yes please, I am far more famished than I believed, bread and ale for now.”

 

Nodding he disappeared towards the kitchen. Alistair was slumped over in his throne, “I didn't see you come in dear, sorry I am not my usual self. I just got through a meeting with our council and a few freeholders about our economic affairs.”

Adelaide took her seat next to her husband, “Curious, what was said?” 

Alistair shook his head, “nothing good to say. The freeholders are having trouble collecting tolls from the few people still traveling on the Imperial highway, and the farmers have already spent what little preserved food from the spring. They asked for permission to begin taxing the villages. But how can I allow them to tax people who are starving so that those better off can get by.”

 

A lump of ice had settled in Adelaide’s throat, either choice would lead to rebellion. Something no one could afford, “I am no diplomat, but I think no matter what we do here, it will lead to rebellion.”

 

Alistair exhaled loudly, the weight of politics taking their toll. “I wish I could think of saying something funny, but instead I am thinking about who is more valuable to keep from storming the castle with pitchforks and torches.”

“If there is a right answer, I do not know it. The farmers supply the kingdom with food, and clothing. Without them there is no trade, no food. But any sedition from lowerclassmen is more easily suppressed than a group of nobles and freeholders with sovereigns and connections, and a will to install a new King.”

Dropping his head into his hands, Alistair let out a guttural howl. If there was anything fragile by the throne it would have been broken. Adelaide felt useless, watching him struggle. No amount of embracing, humour or drink could bring lessen the weight of ruling. 

“People are going to die and I am absolutely useless. I am not the man for this job!”

 

Adelaide stood up, standing in front of her husband, “Listen.  You are the man for this job. You helped slay an archdemon. You helped unite factions. You survived all this, and your heart remained pure despite all the terror and horror of the world. Lesser men than you have held the title of King. I am proud to be Ferelden because I can call you my King, and my husband.”

Alistair looked up at his wife, with teary eyes, “Thank you, I really needed a reminder.”

“You also needed this,” Adelaide cradled her husband's head in her hands and caressed his cheek. Somehow his face still seemed as innocent as it did before Ostagar, she kissed his cheek tenderly. “And this,” she kissed the other cheek. “Also this,” this time she pressed her lips to his. It had been so long since they've had a single moment alone, that a single kiss had brought back every moment of excitement. Pulling back from the kiss she whispered, “long live the king.”

 

The Seneschal came running down the hall towards the throne, slightly out of breath interrupting the matrimonial moment. “Apologies, but an ambassador from Kirkwall has arrived, very short notice to speak to you.”

 

Alistair laughed, “Oh, this. This should be great, where was he staying to get here to quickly Wadard? The greatest whorehouses in Denerim?” Wadard shrugged, “Of that, I have no idea. I apologize that I did not know he was coming.” Waving off the concern, Alistair stifled his laughter, “ Yes well, bring him in then.”

 

A snivelling man who seemed both a man of old age, and infant. With feather fine blonde hair sticking at all ends away from the scalp, attempting to flee the man at any moment. Wearing an overburdening amount of jewels and velvet in an attempt to overcompensate the face, and Adelaide guessed a personality to match. A voice befitting the appearance came out from his mouth, “I am ever so pleased to finally meet the esteemed and rightful rulers of Ferelden,” turning to Adelaide he finished, “and you Serah, a hero befitting this nation,”said with a sharp tone to remind the King and Queen of the circumstances of their rule, it did not go unnoticed. If she had her sword it would already be several inches deep into his heart. Instead of a sword, she had a smile which grew on her mouth, gritting her teeth. Alistair already clearly annoyed, retorted, “yes, my wife, the Queen is rather beloved, and saved us all from damnation. Tell me, what pleasure do we owe of such a visit from such an...important person such as yourself, and I never received your name. Since no one knew you were even in our fair kingdom.”

 

If the man before them caught the tone of Alistair’s voice, reminding him that both he and his Queen were of a higher station than he, he did not show it. He may not have been as dim as first believed. “I come in your hour of need! I, Abner Alexandre Threnhold am here to listen to what the mighty nation of Ferelden needs from our fair state of Kirkwall. I mean, surely we have not given enough,” he said with a knowing grin. He had heard of rumours of Ferelden's woes and had clearly come to ascertain the truth and if so the full weight. 

 

Clearing his throat, nervously now fully aware of the fragile relationship with the Marches, “Yes, all great nations especially after something like a Blight, need to bring their allies closer and trade needs to resume as soon as possible.” 

 

“We have already done more than our fair share for your country, with all due respect Serah,”

 

Alistair scoffed, rolling his eyes he laid on a sarcastic tone, “That would be King Alistair, not Serah if you’re going to butter me up before you say no, remember it _is_ King.” The slight was an obvious one, one that this man had no intent of hiding.

“Of course, my apologies your Grace,” he said, putting a disgusting stress on the word Grace. “The Free Marches have taken in thousands of refugees, and unless you intend on taking them back, we are stuck with thousands of people without work, who need to be fed and taken care of, along all of our other problems.”

 

Alistair shook his head in disbelief, “Problems? You want to talk about problems to me? If we don’t reinstitute trade relations the people in this country will starve!”

 

The ambassador replied, “I have a contingent of Qunari who have taken up in Kirkwall, thousands of Fereldens who refuse to leave, and to top it all off we have a mage rebellion threatening to destroy all of Thedas. Excuse me, but I don’t see how your country’s inability to control their food sources is any of us Marchers’ problem!”

 

Alistair’s eyebrows raised so high above his eyes that the Warden was surprised they didn’t float off his head, “Not your problem? I will personally see to it that we make it your problem, I’ve often heard that the Templars are the true rulers of Kirkwall, it would be unfortunate if they were nudged in the wrong direction.” The collective temperature of the hall rose as if there were a group of rage demons running amok, neither Alistair nor the ambassador noticed the council entering the hall just in time to see the end. 

 

The ambassador making a show bowed in an exaggerated manner to show his further disdain, “I am sorry for wasting everyone’s time here, I will take my leave.”

Muttering under her breath, Adelaide had a few choice words for the now gone ambassador.

 

Alistair’s gaze softened, as he turned to his council, who had only entered, “so, that went well right?” The rest of the council quickly averted their gaze, The Warden spoke up in place of the silence, “We still have not made contact with Starkhaven, they may still be our last hope to sign an agreement, they are the breadbasket of the Free Marches, and probably don’t have the same “problems” as Kirkwall.”

Wynne nodded, “true, yet I still think the outcome will be the same, do we truly have so little friends?”

 

Arl Eamon was the first to speak, “Ferelden is not a popular nation, even more so for the Bastard child of King Maric.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, “you, remember you were the one to force me into this.”

The Arl nodded, “yes and I would do so again, as you are the rightful heir by blood, and the will of the landsmeet, but it does not change the fact that we are not a popular nation, and never have been.”

 

It was true, the surrounding nations looked down on Ferelden as a nation of wayward dogs attempting to sit as equals at the table. The ambassador's visit was nothing more than attempting to ascertain the truth of the kingdom's finances. Time was running out “We must send a request to Nevarra and Orlais for a meeting. The Waking Sea may be frozen now but it will not be forever. We can meet in the early spring,” Wynne added hopefully.

 

Shianni who had remained silent until now asked a question on everyone's mind, “Will we even survive by then?” Shianni was already dealing with the poverty of the Alienage even before the Blight, and now as grain stores of nobles, freeholders, and chantry alike grew bare the less there was for charity. 

“We have to,” Arl Eamon replied, being probably more sober than he had been in a fortnight. 

Shianni rubbed her temples, “of course we have to, but my people are already dying. Meanwhile those with means are buying Nevarran smoked ham and Orlesian cheese!”

 

Guilt weighed heavily in the room. While no one in the council alone could feed the Alienage they knew that they would not go hungry today or tomorrow. But soon, rich or.poor would. Alistair went to place his hands on Shianni’s shoulder, instead she moved away from the gesture, “I am furious, but not with you. You all have done so much for me and my people. I just...” she trailed off. Gesturing for Wadard, the Senechal walked towards Adelaide. “Yes my Lady?”

 

“Tomorrow we all may go hungry, but tonight no one in Denerim will. Wadard, please tell our kitchen to prepare a simple feast of ale, bread and pottage. Invite the Alienage to the great hall, and we will all sit together at the  table.”

 

A furled brow grew across Arl Eamon’s face, “surely my Lady you don't need to do such an act of Charity. The Chantry already does so much, and it's simply too much.”

 

“Surely? If the rest of Thedas thinks they are above us, the more reason to show them that we are all Fereldens and we are equal. If only in spirit tonight.”

 

If Eamon had more to say he remained silent. A shared meal in the Denerim castle side by side with their King and Queen may only buy a day or week of peace and goodwill, but it would be a week of peace. 

 

“I have grown weary of the game of politics, and shall retire to the courtyard,” Adelaide tiredly stated.

 

Alistair rose from his chair, bowing to the council, “Yes, thank you all for coming for this futile meeting, but I wish to spend some time with my dear suffering wife.”

 

As soon as Adelaide left the castle and entered the courtyard she threw off her wimple into the snow. The snow had not stopped falling since she returned to Denerim, and was now knee high or higher, soon they would be completely isolated from all routes in and out. She prayed that Elzbieta was able to leave before the Imperial Highway was completely impassible. The interaction with the insufferable Kirkwall ambassador was still in her mind, making her blood boil. With a disgruntled grunt she tied her sleeves back and picked up a steel greatsword. Normally she didn’t use greatswords, preferring longswords and a shield. But today, she wanted to feel the weight of the steel, and place all her anger into the swing, stabbing a dummy would not be enough. 

 

She picked her victim, in the corner of the courtyard, it was cold and she could feel the icy daggers in her feet but the pain only focused her anger. Taking the greatsword in two hands she brought it down quickly, the dummy burst exploding with hay. “What did the dummy ever do to you?”

 

Adelaide swung around, seeing that it was Alistair she brought her sword down. “He insulted my mother, and cheese,” she said with a grin. Leaning against the castle wall Alistair remarked, “you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

Placing the sword back into the rack, she went to lean against the wall next to him. Brushing the snow off her cloak, he smiled. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in years,” he said.

 

The two embraced in the snow, chilled from the snow she pulled Alistair closer.


	5. 5

5.

_ “There I saw the Black City, towers all stain'd _ ,  _ gates once bright golden forever shut. Heav'n filled with silence, then did I know all and cross'd my heart with unbearable shame” _   
-Andraste 1:11

 

**Elzbieta dismounted off her horse, just outside of West Hill.** She had travelled quickly without stopping from Denerim, westward on the North Road. The snow had already begun to make travel difficult, and she had only just left the view of Fort Drakon, and with the sun already set she wanted to find an inn. Her horse would not go much further, visibility was low, and the snow had quickly blocked the major route forward. The sun had already disappeared behind the Frostback Mountains, leaving any semblance of warmth with it. A freezing wind accompanied a guttural groan as the wind began to pick up, every gust forcing her to hold her cloak tighter, struggling to hold on to the reins on the horse leading him to a few twinkling lights in the village. The snow was already nearly belly deep on the beast, if she left him here, he would most likely die. Trudging towards what she hoped was an inn, as the salt like snow whipped around in the air blinding her. 

 

Tying the horse outside until she could buy space in the stable, she snorted at the pseudo Orlesian sounding name,  _ Le Poulet Gauche,  _ a reference to a crude joke that depended on which side of the Orlesian-Ferelden border one was on. Inside the inn was warm, accompanied by a roaring hearth and the smell of something stewed wafted through the air like a welcoming greeting. The innkeeper, wiping the bar looked up, and rolled his eyes, “wa’re fully booked up m’dam, can hardly fill’r usual customers,” he said with a hardly intelligible Orlesian-Ferelden accent. Brushing the snow off her cloak, she replied, “Sorry, I only require the night for myself and horse,” reaching into her satchel to retrieve a few sovereigns, “I can pay.”

Moving his hands in front to wave her off, “no room!”

 

The wind howled in reply outside, there was no other inn, tavern or even alehouse nearby. “Please, I must insist, there is no other sanctuary for miles,” she pleaded. The innkeeper wasn’t about to be negotiated with, but she did have something that might change his mind. Twisting a seal ring containing the Therin royal seal off her finger, she walked up to the bar to place it in front of him. In a low voice she spoke so that only he could hear, “I am the mistress and friend to my fellow warden, the Queen and Hero of Ferelden. I can pay any amount of sovereigns you may want. I, and the Queen would be forever grateful for your utmost generosity to a weary traveller.”

 

The man stared at the golden ring, picking it up to inspect it. Immediately the air around the man changed and he snapped at a nearby serving girl, “Don’t just stand there girl! Can’t you see we have a guest!” The young girl snapped into action, spinning around to seat the weary traveller. The innkeeper had already disappeared, to find an empty bed no doubt for one of the most important guests he had ever had in his establishment. Taking a seat closest to the hearth, the serving girl put something warm and hearty that was cooking over the fire into a bowl. Never known for its culinary delights, the food was at least warm and filling. She did not dare ask what was in the stew.

 

The fire began to thaw her feet, which began to ache as the blood returned to her toes, she became aware that eyes were on her. A tawny man, nearly as broad as he was tall, half in shadow in the corner. Not knowing what to make of the shadowy man in the corner her hands fell to her sword, resting against the table. “There’s no need for that, woman.”

 

“Is that so?” She replied soberly, her hands gripping the ram leather handle of her sword. The man walked towards her, his body now fully lit by the hearth of the inn. Elzbieta had no doubt this man knew how to fight, but so did she. He opened his jacket, showing that there were no weapons on his hip, “I mean you no harm.” He laughed heartily, taking a chair from a nearby table and moving it closer to her. “I am a trader,” without missing a beat she replied, “of what?” Either this man was extremely rehearsed, or perhaps it was truth, “Do some trapping further south, sell the meat and furs, the occasional barrel of Antivan brandy does wonders for coin,” he said taking a sovereign out from his pocket and holding it in front of her with a grin. Feeling content with the answer, and loosening her grip of her hilt. Leaning back into her chair, she asked,”so what is a trapper by trade doing so far from Denerim?”

He leaned back in thought, “fair question, I was on my way to Orzammar. But my contacts have told me the roads out of Ferelden have been closed.”

Shocked, she replied, “What? Closed? That cannot be?”

With a shrug, and a gestured outside he finished, “That’s what I hope to find out.”

 

Two mugs now filled with hopped beer were placed on the table. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name to thank you for the drink.”

The trader smiled, drinking from his mug, wiping his mouth. “The name’s Peter, originally from a village that no longer exists. You?”

“Elzbieta, from a family that no longer believes I exist.”

“I’ll drink to that.” The two travellers then clanked mugs. 

 

A feeling of warmth grew in Elzbieta’s stomach and up to her throat. It had been some time since she allowed herself to imbibe any alcohol. She looked over at Peter again, his eyes flickering from the flames of the hearth, suddenly feeling more lonely than she had in years. Filling her mouth with more liquid courage she softened her voice, “do you perchance require a bed to sleep in?”

Peter slightly choking on his words replied, “I, I uh, do not wish to intrude on you my lady.”

Laughing, Elzbieta put her hand on top of his, “I was going to ask, do you wish to sleep in my bed.” The former swave and cocksure trader from a village who no longer existed was no longer suave nor cocksure. Which only further endeared him to Elzbieta. She lived a lonely life, but tonight she wouldn't. She took his hand, and led him to her bed.

 

The fire had now dimmed to embers, the two wrapped across each other. It wasn't until a blood curdling scream from outside awoke Elzbieta with a start. The room was in darkness except for a few embers from the hearth that had nearly been extinguished a few hours ago, for a moment she thought she had dreamt it as no one else sounded to be stirring. Another scream, paired with another unnatural sound pushed that thought aside. Ignoring the cold and wearing nearly nothing but her weapons she ran towards the sounds of terror, barefoot in the snow. All of her training as a Grey Warden, her experience battling darkspawn, began rehearsing in her mind. She trained her breath into a rhythm, tried to sense if there was a darkspawn presence. Darkspawn normally only appeared topside during a Blight, but it wasn’t unheard of so soon after a Blight for them to appear in small packs. Still, she could not sense their stench. She did sense something else, the smell of blood.

 

She could smell the smell of copper, on top of another smell of sulphur and other things unnatural before she opened the door to a small home. The inside was still pitch black, any candles that were lit had been extinguished long ago, only the faint twilight from outside gave a faint whisper of light. Reaching for for her fire steel and flint she fumbled until she came across a tinderbox, lighting it she found a candle with a long wick and finally the room was embraced in light. There was more blood than Elzbieta thought possible, against the walls, to the ceiling, soaking into the wood of the floor, in the corner laid a basket, empty. A man disemboweled, covered in what couldn’t be all of his blood, she had seen blood magic before, but nothing like this. If it wasn’t for the sound of ragged breathing she would have been completely blind to the woman staring blankly across the room. Kneeling in front of her she attempted to speak, “my lady, I have to ask you if you saw anything.” The woman opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. “My lady, do you need to see a healer?” Again, nothing came from the woman’s mouth. Elzbieta had seen men and women on the battlefield who behaved as if they saw a ghost after some conflicts or sights, talking to spirits, or as if their soul was trapped in the fade and the body was nothing but a shell. This woman’s spirit was gone, and only the Maker knew when it would return.

Grabbing a woolen blanket, she scooped the woman up and placed her back into the hay filled mattress on the floor across the room. Not knowing what else to do she cradled her face with her hands, wiping the tears that had fallen from the silent mother, Elzbieta had no prayers for something like this. “I will find the people who did this, Andraste preserve us.” Next to the mattress she picked up a small ragged stitched doll and placed it into the mattress. Finally the cold was reaching the skin and bone now that the spirit of battle had left, but before she left there was the matter of the man strewn across the room. There was nothing she could do about the blood, but the least she could do was bury the man away from sight.   
  


After walking back to the inn barefoot she needed to warm herself before she began to lose all feeling. The innkeeper was sleeping behind the bar, his legs up on a stool. Dawn was still more than a few hours away this far into the winter, most men were not attuned to sleeping so lightly that a single branch breaking could be enough to waken them. It seemed that it was only Elzbieta awake in the inn. Leaving the innkeeper be, she dropped a silver piece, and grabbed a bottle of Antivan brandy, took a generous swig from the bottle, wiping her mouth and grabbed the fire poker to stoke a fire. Peter was still passed out in drunkenness and didn’t stir while she dressed herself, which suited her well. She wouldn’t know what to say about what she had witnessed.

 

Finding a chantry in any Ferelden village or town is simple, the building was easy enough to find, most chantries across Thedas followed a similar architectural style, copying the look of the Cathedrals of Val Royeaux, but in a simpler style, and nearly all of them were at the center of the town. Walking briskly through the snow which had mercifully stopped for the night she rapped on the dark wooden door with the flat of her palm. No stirring was heard beyond the door, the laity, and sisters still fast asleep. Again, this time using the handle of her longsword she banged again, shouting, “help, I require aid!”

 

This time the door squeaked open, and an old woman with grey hair nearly down to her waist opened the door and in a hushed guttural shout begged Elzbieta to stay quiet, “please, do not frighten our flock, come inside.” She grabbed her arm and brought her inside, only a single candle being held by the old woman lighting the small chantry. Following her past the pews to a small office on the right the old woman began to light a few more candles until the room began to brighten. Like most rural chantries throughout Ferelden, this chantry had a small office for the Mother and few sisters who did their own studies on matters of theology, herbology, and history. Few of their flock would be educated enough to enjoy reading the small library contained inside. If the hour were not so dire, Elzbieta would have enjoyed reading the latest research from Brother Genitivi, especially on his latest findings of the Ashes of Andraste. 

 

“Excuse the mess, but we've been rather busy with tending to our own dwindling stores,” the sister said while gesturing to the mess of cans and parchment paper. “I apologize for my rash appearance, but I came upon magic most foul, blood magic. I must request aid from one of your Templars.” 

 

The sister did not even raise an eyebrow at the accusation of blood magic occuring in their diocese. Instead she sat at her desk flipping through pages of parliament until she found what she was looking for, “This, is the collective findings of a few of our Templars. I assume you saw something similar?”

Taking the parchment from the sister she began looking at the words, scanning through the descriptions of blood, misery and horror through the flickering of the candle wicks. Again and again, the description was clear, mostly children being stolen from their beds, anyone who found the perpetrators was dispatched allegedly by blood magic. “Yes, very similar. A babe no older than a few seasons, and I must assume its father disemboweled”

Nodding the sister agreed, “Our Templars have attempted to track down these apostates, but every time the trail leads nowhere. We are so resource poor that we cannot send more people to find the abominations who committed these sinful acts.” The sister knelt down at a small hay bed where another older woman was sleeping. “Our Revered Mother Gudrun has new doing all she can to keep the peace, but I don't know how much longer that will be true now with this winter. We thought that perhaps they were taking advantage of the Blight but as our Hero of Ferelden succeeded, the children kept disappearing.”

 

Elzbieta shook her head in disgust, putting the parchment on the desk and knelt with the Sister. “I am currently sent on a mission of great importance to Orlais, but I cannot do nothing here. Let me aid your Templars, my skill as a Grey Warden will, I am sure be a benefit.” The sister cried, embracing her, “thank you, thank you. I'm afraid I never asked your name.” Pulling away slightly, wiping her tears away. “I am Sister Matilde,” 

“Elzbieta, mistress to Queen Regent Adelaide, and Grey Warden.”

“Well now, that’s a mouthful isn’t it? You’re quite qualified for this then aren’t you?”

Nodding, “Yes, sadly I’ve seen things like this and more. Places where the Maker has never shown His light.”

The Sister closed her eyes, reciting from memory, “In dread I looked up once more

And saw the darkness warp and crumble,” Elzbieta responded by reciting a passage from Trials, “Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.”

The Sister smiled, “You know your passages well.”

“All who walk in the Maker’s light should know Him well,” Elzbieta replied.


End file.
